Killer
by Travithian Axile
Summary: From The New World... It's hard to know you care only when it's too late to tell him. PostGate, oneshot, KillerXLady.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Shadow Hearts, not even the content of this fic. Okay?**

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**SHADOW HEARTS: FROM THE NEW WORLD**

**/KILLER/**

**last breath before drowning**

She remembered the first time she had met him.

One foot forward, and another. Stepping slowly and delicately across the rock-strewn ground. The sky shone like fire and blood above, reflected in the wide, glassy mirrors of his eyes. She blinked; did those enigmatic eyes glitter, just once, for her?

She stumbled, spilling herself and her burden on the ground. His limp body sprawled, lacking the sinuous grace that had been so evident in life, his pale cheek pressed to the dusty ground. The lapels of his black coat fluttered gently in the dry breeze, hot and unnatural like the breath of a dragon.

Once he would have moved, lithe and cat-quick, like a crimson shadow, to his feet once more, body taut and swaying and knives shining in his hands like silver claws, like the killer he was, a man that was both more and less than a man. So many times, she'd seen him, standing in front of her, ready to lay his life down for hers…and whenever she thought of that, confusion would flutter in her heart.

Why had she saved him, then? She remembered a young man, vulnerable and afraid, covered in his own blood and that of others. She remembered the fear in his eyes. How his breath had touched her face, weak and feeble as that of a dying butterfly, his hands pushing weakly at her. How he had kissed her, as though she was the last thing in the world and all he could do was to hold on to her with that rough, desperate grip.

It was painful, to remember. It cut her from the inside like glass. She could never imagine. But it was her first real memory, and she held it to her even as it slashed her heart and wrists to ribbons, leaking blood and a slowly awakening anger that stained her vision with its burning heat.

**all the sound in the world**

She held his face to hers, her knees pressing into the cold metal of the Gate. He was a big man, big and sinewy, but his weight seemed to have left with his soul, and he slumped light and oddly frail in her clutching fingers, hot and flaming as though with a fever. She gazed at his face, white with pain, remembering how he had talked to her, even as she had sat silent and unresponsive, his gentle administrations.

He had told her his name, and given her one. She traced trembling fingers over his lips, his chin rough with stubble, recalled how those lips had moved as he'd talked, how she had kissed them and gave him the gift of life. The desperate loneliness of endless wandering, seeking blindly through a gray fog for the voice that called to her insistently, plaguing her, walking through the bleak world whose only color was the killing red light that both took and gave life—he'd changed that. Changed everything.

Her voice was dusty, unused, like moldy old tomes lying abandoned in a rotting library, and its utterance surprised even her. It was hesitant, weak, wavering. Like an infant who has taken its first, tottering steps, she pressed close to him and breathed his name, the child who wants to please his proud parents. "Kill…er…"

And it seemed all sound stopped; the terrible dirge of the Gate, the singing of the stones, life itself. Her first word hung, small and fragile in the glassy silence, reverberating even after it had scraped out of her throat like sandpaper.

_Aren't you proud of me now? I said it—said your name—isn't it enough—_

Then the moment passed, and he did not respond, and she knew; (perhaps she had already known) his face stared back at hers, mocking her with his silence.

And she knew rage, cold, burning, insane rage as she had never known before. It seared her nerves, blotted out all thought in her mind. The anger built, mounted, and was released in a raw scream that was the synthesis, the culmination of fury and hatred and petty jealousies, the dark imaginings of man, the lurking, nightmarish thoughts of the beast that slept chained in the back of the minds of men.

The world quailed before that scream, as though it knew its doom. She kept on screaming, branding her rage and churning grief into the aloof skies, and as though even it was touched by her pain, rivulets of scarlet came dripping from the sky and painted the whole world red.

And the Gate opened, for her.

**sliding into slumber**

There was an altar, at the end of her road; just for him, it seemed. She laid his body down upon it, smoothed out his wrinkled coat, brushed his unruly locks from his cold forehead, even as she knew that it shouldn't matter anymore. But it was still his, however empty it was, and she loved him.

When had she began to realize; to know, whenever his eyes rested on her a little too long, when he spoke to her in that way meant for her ears alone, whenever he smiled, soft and wistful—too soft for his character, crusted and bitter—when he touched her, barely a brush, creaking leather against her hair.

But now he was dead, and he would never know.

She bent down, brushed her mouth against his with a touch that was like the stroke of a spiderweb. But it wasn't the same, no eager response of lip and tongue, no wry curl of his mouth. She commanded the red light, but it worked only once; he had received his second chance, and died, and that was it.

She bowed her head, and silver tears ran from the corner of her eyes, cupping her chin in an ethereal embrace. What use was it, to have fulfilled her destiny and not having him to share it with her? She kissed him again, tenderly, softly, willing all the power she possessed into his broken form. Motes of red light swirled around them, giving his visage an ethereal look.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Their steps alerted her. She drew herself away, stared at them with eyes blurred with unfamiliar tears. The boy stepped towards her, his features swimming in her vision. "Are you…crying?" he whispered, his voice low with awe, wonder. His hair glowed with a golden sheen.

His words shattered the numbness that reigned within her. The sorrow fell away, leaving behind a calm, cold anger born out of the forge. Killer lay before her, his hands folded over his bloody chest. There was no need for thoughts, only instinct and revenge.

They fell back, shielding their eyes from the heat of her attack. Her arms raised aloft, beseechingly, her newly awoken voice thundering out of her slender throat, moaning and weeping, scything into the turbulent heavens with the ferocity of a knife. The unholy dirge continued, heartrending and beautiful in its despair, and then

There was only the red light.

_**end.**_

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**Author's Note**: To be admitted, I haven't finished off the last boss battle yet, because Lady has already thrashed me one time. That's why I just ended there. Anyway, this story was inspired by the FMV before the boss, and it was, well, just so amazingly and wonderfully put together that I just had to write something about it. Yeah, I know it's a little inaccurate, call it artist's license, okay?

This is my first SH fic, so I hope you have enjoyed my humble effort, and that you will be kind enough to leave a few comments before you leave. Thank you.

**T. Axile.**


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